The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [76]
The next day Nell was reading—“The little bear was cross”—when there came a knock at the schoolroom door. “Uncle Hugh,” she exclaimed, dropping her book and jumping up from the table.
“Good morning, ladies. Don’t let me disturb you.” He sat down at the far end of the table, folded his arms, and, looking first at Nell, who was dancing around, offering to show him our eggshell collection, and then at me, said, “Pray continue.”
“Nell, you can do that later. Please come and sit down. Let your uncle hear how well you can read.” I squeezed my hands together so hard I could feel the bones bending. Had he come to tell me that I was dismissed? That I was not sufficiently upright to be Nell’s teacher?
“Uncle Hugh, look, this is a starling’s egg.” She plucked an egg from the cotton-wool-lined box where we kept our finds and held it out to him.
“Nell. Please come and sit down.”
“Gemma said this one might be a curlew’s.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “She’s excited by your visit.”
But even as I spoke, Nell gave a quick, mischievous glance over her shoulder; she knew exactly what she was doing. Furious, desperate, I stood up and walked to the window. A bee, its legs knobbed with pollen, was buzzing against the glass. Come in and sting someone, I thought. I could feel Mr. Sinclair watching me as I reached to open the window wider.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “Nell seems to have forgotten her schoolroom manners.”
Turning to face him, my right hand grazed the sill. “Oh,” I gasped.
“What is it?” said Mr. Sinclair. He was suddenly by my side.
“The bee,” I said. “It stung me. Poor thing.”
“Why poor thing?” said Nell as Mr. Sinclair said, “Let me see.”
“Because once a bee uses its sting it dies.” I held out my hand and there, at the base of my thumb, was a red bump surmounted by the flimsy dark sting.
“We need tweezers and warm water and bicarbonate of soda,” said Mr. Sinclair. “Nell, make yourself useful and go and fetch Vicky. Tell her what happened.”
“It’s just a bee,” I murmured, but she was already gone. Mr. Sinclair brought over a chair and I sat down by the window. The beech trees swayed beneath my gaze and I had to keep blinking to steady them. He pulled over a second chair.
“Once, when I was Nell’s age,” he said, “my brother and I were out exploring near the Sands of Evie.” He described how one of their dogs had chased a rabbit into the Broch of Gurness and stumbled into a wasps’ nest. “We tried to brush them off, but there were so many and they were buried in her fur. Roy wrapped her in his jacket and carried her down to the sea. She died from shock, but at least the water calmed her. She always loved swimming.”
As he spoke, the beech trees grew still and, because he was looking past me, I was able to steal a glance at him. His eyes were not, I saw, the deep blue I had thought, but only seemed so between his dark lashes. Their colour was closer to the light blue of the Scottish flag. He was still talking as Vicky appeared, with a bowl of warm water, a pair of tweezers, and Nell. He stood up and surrendered his chair.
When Vicky had gone again, leaving me soaking my hand in the warm water, he said, “There, you look better. You were quite pale for a few minutes. Now that I’ve turned your morning head over heels, how about an educational outing. We could visit St. Magnus Cathedral, if you feel up to it.”
“Oh, please,” said Nell.
“Hush,” he said sharply. “Let your elders and betters speak. What do you think, Gemma?”
I stood up and walked three times around the table. “I think I feel fine.”
Mr. Sinclair gave an approving nod. “No vapours for you. We’ll leave in ten minutes. Nell, bring your crayons and your sketchbook.”
The red sandstone cathedral was a familiar sight, standing as it did in the middle of Kirkwall, but on previous trips to the town I had always been too busy to go inside. Now I followed Mr. Sinclair and Nell up the steps to the beautiful arched